Pasta with a side of Spice
by WhiteWolf535
Summary: Two men, unknown to each other, their fates connected through the ties of time and blood. How will Ezio's adventures of becoming an assassin be changed when an irritable Arabian is added to the chaos? Rated M for blood, language, and eventually lemons.
1. Prologue

**I'm Alive! **

**I know I still need to finish Exciting Nights but I've been bogged down by a number of stuff including a few personal things. So I either haven't had the time or the motivation to write. **

**Anyway, this is the prologue of a story I started before this huge writer's block. It's gonna be awesome! And don't worry, this is just an opening so it might seem really deep and poetic while the rest of the story will probably (hopefully) be more straight forward.**

**Anyway, the first chapter should be up either later tonight or tomorrow. Enjoy!**

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><p>Pasta with a side of Spice<p>

~Prologue~

A lone candle flickers in the darkness causing shadows to dace amongst warped illumination. Wax dribbles down the once tall pillar. The small flame casts its orange light over the wooden desk where it sits. Papers are littered across the surface along with books of daunting size. Each parchment is scribbled with an ancient language from a time far from our own.

Suddenly a door opens. The tiny luminance writhes in the flow of air from the open corridor, scattering the warm light across the walls. A silhouetted figure slips into the encased darkness, becoming yet another shadow when they close the door. Fabric and steel rustles in the silent space as the intruder shuffles around the room. The orange light settles again, its warm tendrils snagging glimpses of the white clothed being.

Finally, with a clang of blades falling to the ground, the living force in the room pulls back a worn chair which was previously the company of the desk. A pair of elbows press to the sturdy surface of the wood as the candle sheds light on this exhausted creature: a man. The tall figure dressed in red and white robes holds his head in his hands.

Dull brown eyes stare with a distant gaze at the warm little flame. The orange light dips and curves with every line on the man's face, casting a blanket of glowing illumination until the flame cools and becomes a shadow hiding amongst the wrinkles of old age. This being has succumbed to his years. Dark, grizzled hairs cover the man's lower jaw, giving the middle aged creature a charming yet handsome quality to his features.

A scar to his upper lip tells of an eventful youth full of mischief. His cloudy, far away orbs drift to the paper in front of him. His body locks up when his muddy eyes fall on a single eagle's feather.

The plumage reflects a mysterious stormy grey that stirs something deep inside this man. A mile plays at the old creatures scarred lips. He has done everything he was meant to do. Surely he must be allowed to reminisce now, be allowed to bask in the only thing he has managed to cling to in all of his years of life; his memories.

A wrinkled hand falls to the quill and takes it in his hand. He gazes at the elegant eagle feather before moving his foggy eyes to the nearest blank sheet of paper. He pulls the blank slate in front of him and he's immediately embraced by a warmth from long ago; a heat equal to that of a fire, a living being whose life depended on oxygen until it was extinguished just as a flame would be.

The old man sits perfectly still as an arm extends from the blank sheet of parchment. Heavy eyelids shut when the sensation of a calloused hand cups his cheek. His head naturally leans into the blazing comfort on his chilling skin. A hand so full of youth that he once enjoyed. He almost feels ashamed of himself to have such young flesh on his wrinkled skin.

The hand pulls away but the sensation stays. The man's brown eyes open to stare into the page where his mind stays. He can almost see the hooded head of the love of his life smirking at him through the page. The man can feel the weak tears pool at the corners of his dull eyes. As if to make it all worse, the apparition on the paper starts to turn, beckoning him to follow, to return to a time in his life which can never be rewritten. The salty liquid drips to the page and his frustration bursts forth like a dam worn down by years of abuse and neglect.

The man clenches his hand into a fist and as if to reach through the barrio which is separating him from his fading lover, slams his fist into the creamy page. The candle flickers once more, shuddering at the force, and then, goes out. In that instant the room is plunged into darkness, taking the old man away from sight and from existence. The man disappears from his world and is transported to the time of his youth.

Ezio ceases to be. The Great Eagle becomes what used to be, soaring on the wings of wishes, regrets, and memories.

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><p><strong>Reviews encourage me! But not if they are just telling me to work on Exciting Nights... cuz that's just obnoxious. <strong>

**Reviewers also get love! :)**


	2. Chapter 1: Ties Made

Chapter One

The thrill of the chase never gets old.

Two men, unknown to each other, their fates connected through the ties of time and blood. Both run for similar causes, chased by the same Florentine guard, they are both consumed by heart pounding fear and confusion. One is lost in a place and time he has been suddenly thrust into; his own time period lost in the desert plains which he arrived from. Buildings that were once packed mud and logs have been transformed into hard bricks placed in intricate designs foreign to his wide, grey eyes.

The other being however is all too familiar to these streets. Bright brown eyes flit from the shocked faces of the citizens he shoves through to the faces of the angry guards charging behind him. His life is young, he is only seventeen. How was he supposed to react when he found out his brothers and father were arrested? They were just executed in front of his eyes, how was he supposed to feel? He wonders if his father had seen him pushing through the crowd to reach them. He wonders if his father knew he made the effort.

The thoughts clear when yet another guard joined the chase. In his panic, the young man turns down a thin alleyway between a pair of brute knights. The two men make some heavy voiced threats before turning to follow him. The young man hears the clang of metal and curses of more than a dozen men when the two knights wedge themselves in the opening, blocking the other guards. His brown eyes flicker with hope. Surely he can escape now. He looks ahead and panics slightly when he sees a brick wall stretch out in front of him. But then his mind reminds him of the sharp left turn the alley makes to join with the main street again, forming an 'L' shape. He just hopes the guards are more preoccupied with the stuck knights than the alternate route they can potentially take and pin him with. He hopes for this desperately as he shifts his weight to make the sharp turn.

But they were destined to collide, quite literally as this case may be.

The two eagles make contact.

The two men crash into each other. There is a loud crack as their heads collide. The grey eyed man hisses a curse in Italian; which is tainted by a strange, heavy accent that is foreign to this land. The young man recoils until his back hits the wall. His head pounds and his skull aches but the danger that he faces makes all of that go away. His brown eyes open and the fear returns; he's wasting time.

But then he sees just who he ran into. For a moment he thinks that he may have run into some sort of reflective surface. Grey eyes however burn into his. Those should be an equal brown to his. But this is not a mirror. The man in front of him is different from him. They wear the same robes. Only minor differences in design separate these two. The hood that comes to a point shrouds their faces from suspicious eyes. The boots, the gloves, the belts, the sashes, all the same (except for maybe the fabric). They are alike but so vastly different. But they do not know this yet. They do not know each other. Not yet.

The grey orbs stay on the young man. They seem to be soaking in his existence, memorizing him. The brown eyed being feels as if he is witnessing a life changing experience, one of those that we carry on for the rest of your lives forever. For a split second the young man sees the turn iridescent and a shiver runs down his spine but then the shine leaves when a crash of metal pulls the strange eyes to the knights at the end of the alleyway.

At the same time the guards who were pursuing the grey eyed man finally catch up. Men dressed in heavy armor storm around the corner of the open alleyway while the brutes from before pick themselves up and allow the other impatient men to swarm around them.

The two are trapped in a corner and are slowly becoming surrounded by jeering, taunting guards who were thirsty for blood.

The brown eyed youth watches in wonder as the other white clothed being pulls out a sword with a snarl. The odds are against him yet he fights anyway. But the young man is scared and clever. He turns to the wall he was previously pressed against and jumps. His hand grips a thin edge but it's enough; he starts to climb with relative ease. The other man's grey eyes flick to the fleeing figure as they climb to safety. The stormy orbs narrow on the young figure and he curses in some foreign language.

Perhaps the young man feels bad for leaving someone to die but what can he do with no weapons? He lost his only sword when he rushed to help his father and brothers. All he had were his hands and he was using those for climbing. He scrambles up onto the roof of the building just as a rock soars past his head. He glances down to see some twitchy guard armed with a short dagger hops forward in a speedy stab motion only to be blocked by the longer blade. The grey-eyed man continues the movement with a swift step forward to lodge his blade into the shorter knight's armpit. The young man in white watches in mortified amazement as the arm falls limp to the guard's side.

Before the incapacitated soldier can even scream his agony, the tan skinned foreigner swings his sword with a fluid movement and dispatches the poor guard with a merciful stab. Blood oozes from the wound. For a moment the young witness, perched above, believes that his incredible warrior could win. But his horrifying is cut short by the sudden whizz of an arrow passing by.

Apparently he had failed to notice the angry archer who has been shouting at him to get off the roof for some time now. The ranting attacker hisses an insult at the young man before firing yet another arrow. This seems to be just the encouragement the youth needs to send him running across the red tiles, desperate to get home again; to safety. He tosses one last look down to the man in the alleyway, sure that he will never see the brave warrior again. It was a short glance though. His own survival is more important than the stranger.

Each step takes him further and further from the man who was to change his life through unintentional means. But the threads have been formed.

They are destined to meet again.


End file.
